


no other place to keep you safe

by peridium



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Episode Tag, Episode: s12e03 The Foundry, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sad Dean, like soooooo sad, vaguely unhealthy sexual dynamics because SOMEONE is bad at coping with his abandonment issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-28 01:57:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8426224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peridium/pseuds/peridium
Summary: “Do I want to have sex with you?” Cas asks levelly. “Yes, very much. Do I want to hurt you so you can punish yourself?” The loaded pause rolls around in the half-foot of stale air between their bodies. “You should know me better than that.” (12.03 coda.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is just like, the same coda everyone has already written five times, but with more ill-advised attempts to initiate sex. Whew, the end of that episode hurt somethin' fierce.
> 
> The title is from "Artificial Light" by Typhoon. I'm on Tumblr at [sunbeamdean](http://sunbeamdean.tumblr.com).

The floor tilts around Dean as he opens the door on Cas. That happens sometimes when his eyes catch too long on the lines around Cas’ eyes or the breadth of Cas’ shoulders. Tonight, Dean’s pretty sure it’s just the booze.

“Dean,” Cas says. Exactly the way Dean knew he would.

Dean doesn’t want to say any of it. His mouth doesn’t want to make the words: _She left like I knew she would. It’s complicated like you promised it wouldn’t be._

He hauls Cas forward by the lapels of his suit jacket. He stumbles—definitely the booze, okay—and Cas catches him, hands cupping his elbows, and Cas’ mouth opens up under Dean’s, easy and human-tasting. Cas kisses like a guided missile, like there’s nothing else he’d rather be doing, and the dirty slide of his tongue pours heat right through the center of Dean. It’s a better, cleaner echo of the whiskey-fire still buzzing in his blood vessels.

It’s their fourth kiss, if Dean’s counting right. Not that Dean’s been counting. Four and a half if you count the brush of Cas’ mouth across Dean’s knuckles the last time they climbed into the front of the Impala together and their hands made two halves of a whole on the seat between them.

He doesn’t count anything now except the frantic patter of his own pulse in his ears and the way all ten of Cas’ fingers wrap around his wrists. “Please,” he says into the bruising rise of Cas’ lower lip.

Cas’ pupils are wide and dark. He licks his lips and tightens his grip on Dean and the pressure of his fingertips feels good, grounding. “Talk to me,” he says. He always did steal half his best lines from Dean.

“You didn’t pick up the phone.”

Cas exhales. “I didn’t need to. I was already on my way.”

Dean bites back his question before it can get out. He knows the answer, knows how Cas knew to come. The ache splintering his sternum, sinking into the pit of his stomach, as Mary disappeared around the corner and into the garage. Sam’s silent retreat. The first beer, the second beer, the third and fourth, and then the Maker’s Mark straight from the bottle. Dean’s head tipped back against the wall of his bedroom, his hands slackened and weak with intoxication, and the pathetic admission curling around the corners of his consciousness. _I need Cas._

The edges of Cas’ features are so soft with pity it makes Dean’s teeth itch. “I’m here,” he says. “And I’m sorry.”

Dean doesn’t want sorry. “Gee,” he snarls, “thanks,” and he kisses Cas again, mouth open.

Cas plays along, sinks into it. He walks his fingertips up Dean’s arms to where his sleeves are rolled to the elbow, and then he fits the whole breadth of his palm around the back of Dean’s neck. It helps, angles the kiss deep and beautifully distracting. Dean’s head swims and his dick perks up in his jeans and God, it’s a relief.

“C’mon.” He tugs at Cas, any part of him he can reach. Cas’ tie slithers loose and the top two buttons of his shirt pop open. Dean’s fingernails catch on the bare skin of his throat, and he sighs into Cas’ mouth.

“Dean,” Cas says again. It could be the only word he knows sometimes. The next kiss is too careful, Cas’ fingers fluttering at the hinge of Dean’s jaw. The spaces between the movements of Cas’ mouth are too long and empty; they make it too easy for Dean to remember how to think.

He yanks at Cas’ shirt, urging him in, and their teeth click together. It rattles Dean’s skull. His stomach lurches a little. “C’mon,” he repeats. He’s trying like hell not to slur his words, trying to prove that he deserves this thing he wants so bad from Cas.

A little furrow pulls Cas’ brows together, incongruous with his kiss-reddened mouth and ruffled hair. “You’re upset,” he says, “and you’re drunk.”

Dean snorts around a laugh. “And bears shit in the woods. You want it, right?” He barely dodges saying _me_ instead of _it_. Terror of Cas’ answer coils tight in his gut anyway.

Cas touches the skin behind Dean’s ear. His thumb grazes Dean’s earlobe. “Do I want to have sex with you?” he asks levelly. “Yes, very much. Do I want to hurt you so you can punish yourself?” The loaded pause rolls around in the half-foot of stale air between their bodies. “You should know me better than that.”

“That’s not,” Dean starts. His voice cracks.

Cas’ lips thin. He lets his fingers bump the throb of Dean’s half-erection where it’s tenting Dean’s jeans, but his hand doesn’t linger. The barest ghost of pleasure skates along Dean’s spine, and like he’s the subject of the saddest Pavlovian experiment of all fucking time, the corners of his eyes prickle. He shuts his eyes.

“Fuck,” he says.

Cas’ hands are there to hold him up as the strength bleeds out of his shoulders. Cas pulls him in, catching Dean and tucking Dean’s face into the bare slope of his shoulder. His palm spans the small of Dean’s back, and he strokes the dip of Dean’s spine there, thumb catching on the sliver of bare skin at the waistband of Dean’s jeans.

Dean always gets turned on this close to Cas, all the long lines and solid muscles of his body. His dick still jumps a little against the seam of his pants when Cas kisses his temple, breath warm. Eyelashes damp, Dean noses at the soft, stubble-prickly underside of Cas’ jaw, ready to push his luck again. Cas’ skin tastes a little like sweat, a little like generic cheap-motel pine body wash. It sours against the whiskey still thick on Dean’s tongue, but he sucks a bruise into Cas’ throat anyway.

The tremor of Cas’ groan vibrates through Dean from where his fingers curl into the fabric of Cas’ slack. He’s smiling, a drunk and dangerous thrill like triumph tugging at the corners of his mouth.

That’s when Cas leans back, fixes him with an unblinking stare, grabs Dean by the shoulder and the meat of his thigh, and flips him flat onto his stomach.

The mattress swallows Dean’s yelp of surprise. Courtesy of his last overfilled shot, the bed spins around him for a long, disorienting second, and he hears himself whine as Cas’ weight settles over him. Cas’ thighs frame Dean’s hips, snug along the sides of him, holding him in place.

“Be still,” Cas says. He touches two fingertips to the back of Dean’s neck, drags the pad of his thumb along the slope that leads to his shoulder. 

Dean settles. He keeps his eyes closed and he does his best to breathe while Cas touches him.

“Good,” Cas says. His hands make broad, slow circles across Dean’s back. When his thumbs dig in just under Dean’s shoulder blades, Dean whimpers. The aching goodness gets his dick hardening all over again, but it doesn’t demand immediate gratification. It’s a distant pleasure, eclipsed by the careful way Cas tracks the slope of Dean’s spine and Cas’ stocking feet tucked up under Dean’s knees. The ordinary heaviness of Cas’ body on his.

Cas doesn’t let up. He bears down over Dean and he kisses the base of Dean’s skull and he kneads at Dean’s stiff muscles until Dean’s drifting, drunk and boneless and sinking deeper into the memory foam of his mattress.

“Mom left,” Dean says finally. It comes out muffled and childish. Shame spikes in the core of him.

“I know.” Cas stills. He leans down until his forehead touches the back of Dean’s neck. He breathes there. Steady, even. He’s pressed so close Dean can feel the human thumping of Cas’ heart through the two layers of fabric separating their bare skin.

Cas doesn’t apologize again. He doesn’t make any more promises. He doesn’t tell Dean it’s going to be okay. But he keeps breathing, and he stays exactly where he is, right there, until Dean’s breaths slow in turn, until they’re in sync.

“I know,” Cas says again into the silence of the room. The brush of his mouth moving on Dean’s neck makes a tiny whispering sound.

“You left,” Dean adds, petulant, stupid.

“I know.” Last time. Cas swallows, and Dean feels the movements of his throat. “But I came back.”

He's kind enough not to say anything when all the breath in Dean’s lungs wrenches around a raw-edged sob.

When Dean wakes hours later to a dark room, Cas is wrapped tight around him. Their legs are tangled up. Cas' hair tickles the hollow beneath Dean's ear, and for a guy who talks a big game about how angels don't need sleep, that faint whistle to every inhale sure sounds like the start of a snore. The shattered hollow in Dean's chest has stuck around too, but Dean burrows back against the heat of Cas, and the sharp way it hurts doesn’t retreat, but it stays put. It doesn’t grow. He’s gonna make it through the night. In the morning, he'll kiss Cas until he can't keep count anymore.


End file.
